


Reading Ballads

by mixedwithintellect



Series: Sign of the Times [2]
Category: Don't Let Me Go - Harry Styles (Song), Kiwi - Harry Styles (Song), Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band), Sweet Creature - Harry Styles (Song)
Genre: 1950s, AU, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angst, Blind Character, Blind Harry, F/M, veteran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixedwithintellect/pseuds/mixedwithintellect
Summary: the one where he's an outsider and she works in the local cafeOR:The 1950s installment of the Soul-Mates verse.





	Reading Ballads

“Excuse me, has the juke been moved?”

He spoke softly, despite the two of you being the only people in the open span of the restaurant. It was simply his way.

You turned away from your task of attempting to organize a chaotic hell of menus, and faced the man. He was stooped slightly over the hostess stand, his fingers grasped around one of the edges and his other hand gangly by his side.

He had been christened Harry, in some town a sea away, but to your town, with its confinements and rules, he was rebirthed the Juke Boy.

Aptly called, for he had a habit of marking his spot in the back booth of Mel’s, with his stack of blank papers and his rigidity towards schedule. He was apparently learning Braille, his eyebrows furrowed and his fingers running along the pages for hours at a time, only stopping to pick away at his burger and shake, or to slip more change in the jukebox. Mel gave him food for free, figuring his donations to the music would make up for the small dip in profit. Really, you felt she had a heavy burden of guilt towards the boy, as most people who weren’t responsible did.

The juke was his companion, standing proud at just an arm’s length away from his seat. Harry could often slip change in by just rotating his torso slightly and grazing up against the machine, a reflexive move when the song he picked would gradually cease to be.

With a look over at Harry’s corner, it was clear to you the juke had, in fact, been moved. It was now pushed against another wall, not near any booths, which posed a slight dilemma for the man standing before you.

Mel had explained once, when curiosity had bested you and your barrage of questions fell loose, that he was a veteran. A British soldier who had fought his way through World War II, suffering from an awful injury that had taken most of his vision. While he had received awards in his home country, it seemed America offered some sense of solace to him, for he had been living there for the past 4 years. What had drawn him in, she didn’t know.

It made sense, with how his back stood rigid. He sat against the corner, with his back only facing the juke and the wall, which was similar to how your cousin would insist on choosing the table in a similar location. It was about facing the possible danger, never having it fully behind you, which spoke above and beyond a simple room placement.

“He’s harmless. Just likes his music, I like his company. Leave him be, kid, no makin’ him feel uncomfortable,” Mel had warned, but accompanied with a friendly enough wink and a rough pat on the arm. Which was her way, rough and kind, and you had the suspicion she had used her status within the town to imply that anyone who teased the poor man would be getting the dry soda tap instead of the fresh supply.

“It’s fine, Harry, it’ll go back in a few minutes. I need to sweep back there,” Mel called out from the back, yelling a touch louder than necessary. She often did so, speaking for you whenever Harry would ask something of you, whether it was a refill or to read the list of new songs whenever they were changed out. You had done it once, reading slow and stopping when Harry perked up, but at the end of it all, Harry let out a jilted nod and a gruff, “Thanks” that led you to believe the situation was still uncomfortable for some involved.

Harry tilted his head towards the kitchen, where Mel was, as he nodded. His eyes stayed on the floor, instinct kicking through in his shy nature. It wasn’t often you’d see them, as Harry typically wore glasses – but only because the sun came through from the open window, and he was apparently sensitive to lightness.

Mel had said before, because she was quite the gossip when Harry was new and the town was perplexed, that his eyes looked normal enough and would often focus in on the person he was speaking to, yet there was enough shake and distance where it was clear they weren’t altogether there.

And, if the talk of the town had a drop of truth, neither was he.

His bottom lip was between his teeth, his nervousness evident in his fingers drumming against the top of the podium, before rapidly withdrawing back down to his side. In doing so, he eased away from your space, a particular heaviness gone. You hadn’t done much but stood there, fingers still wrapped around menus and playing with the frayed edges of the sheets, not so much as a word passing your lips.

It was a fight to remain natural, yet the thread of it all ran juxtaposed from the natural you knew.

Harry’s forehead was still lined with worry, not quite having felt a relief from Mel’s promise. The disruption in his routine seemed to have more of an impact than Mel had anticipated when she had begun the spring cleaning, and you were left unsure as to what to do to help. So you simply stacked the menus and slid them into the small pocket of the station, eyes following the man after he parted with a mumble of agreement.

The Juke Man shuffled towards his station, and in an odd and guilty flash of curiosity, you wondered how he could sense where it was. It wasn’t the first time your curiosity peaked about him, and it wasn’t likely to be the last, but words had a way of never quite reaching a politeness once they hit your lips and you were stone-cold scared of offending him. If he were offended, he would have to find another place to eat, and working would lose that sliver of mystery.

There was an unnerving sense of freedom in your stare, how he wouldn’t be aware of it. His rucksack **,** slung over his shoulder, was put onto the table as he nestled into the seat, his arm reaching out to steady himself onto the ripped, plush cushion.

The booth was in the corner and he was situated so that his back was to the wall and he faced the rest of the restaurant completely, with a potted tree hanging over most of his table space. It was simply known as Harry’s spot, and you’d typically hold it for him on the days he was late and the before-dinner crowd had jumbled about.

It had been the case a few weeks ago, when Harry had been a proper bundie and you couldn’t help but wonder how curly his hair could be. You remembered catching sight of him in the middle of your after-school rush on a Tuesday, an abnormal time for him to stop by. But sometimes he broke schedule; his appointments with his doctors and teaches would step out of the ordinary routine, and you had a nagging suspicion they were trying to address his need for structure.

That Tuesday, greasers had taken up most of the space of your mind, half of your wits gone with fear for the cleanliness of your diner as cigarette ash and gel gloops threatened the perimeter. But you distinctly remembered when the Juke Man shuffled by, rough hair longer than the schoolboys around him, twisting his way through the mass of kids. The community had, strangely enough, been accommodating and some of the tough-looking men pushed their friends out of Harry’s way as he passed. He didn’t so much as nod towards them, but they didn’t seem to mind.

But now it was the next _next_ Saturday, and his hair had been lobbed off to an appropriate length and his fingers were shaking a bit more.

“Give him his food, won’t you? Gotta sweep,” Mel grumbled, and there was a tray of papers and greasy food on your hostess stand within a matter of moments. The diner had kicked off and it was noon, sun high in the sky and the people dwelling around the town, gasping for a pocket of air void of heaviness and dew.

Walking over to his booth always felt strange. You had the inkling to make more noise than you typically would, but in doing so you felt it would be too obvious and you would be found out. So you managed to do it normally enough, almost feeling the wave of difference as you crossed the border into his small corner.

His attention was on the strange bumps on the papers, his finger running over a line again and again. With so close a proximity, you could see the dimensions within his hair, the slight redness in his skin, and the tease of ink down his arm.

“Your food?” You set it on the table gently, attempting not to disturb him, but the head shake and the paper shuffle indicated that you, in fact, had. It seemed more of an expected sort of surprise though, because his head didn’t turn so quickly as it would’ve if you were a stranger. (You had seen it when Mary approached him the other week, asking if he wanted a gum stick, and he accidentally spilled his coffee.)

“Finally decided to bring it over, huh?” Harry mumbled, and you blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just,” Harry looked away from his papers, a wry smile turning his lips, “I can feel you staring, love. Took a while for you to bring it over, s’all.”

“Wasn’t staring.” Flustered, it was all you managed to get out, the embarrassment of being figured out, all the while firmly believing you never would, rising up in your throat.

He laughed, and for a moment, you saw the face of a young man, untroubled by the world or its demons.

“It’s fine if you were,” he continued, and Mel was right – his eyes did have the uncanny ability of narrowing in on yours, despite not quite making the full connection, and his smile evened out into something soft.

“Okay, maybe I was, but I’m sorry I’ll stop, swear it--”

“You’re fine, love,” he stressed, and several lines creased his face as he realized you hadn’t been on the same wave as him, “Just teasing. I’m used to it, by now, have to be in this place.”

Harry’s face relaxed from its pose of concentration, and his hand went out, almost hitting his milkshake. Deftly, you caught it and straightened it out, as Harry let out a noise of surprise.

“Milkshake not on the right?” he asked, and once more you realized you hadn’t thought it through.

“Yeah, sorry, Mel just sorta gave it to me, forgot how it was supposed to go-”

Harry shook his head.

“You’re fine, love,” he shook it off, a brief smile flashing on his lips before delving back into the moodiness of his stature. It seemed the previous conversation had slipped back into a sense of something harder, and the coldness was coming.

He continued, fingers slower to reach out for the plate, “Bit o’ change never hurt anyone.”

\---

It seemed the universe had heard his words and conspired to make him regret them. A protest began a few days later, in the skirts of the town where church bells tolled away and people’s heads rose to thank God and lowered to pray. It wasn’t altogether a new concept for protesting, but this one in particular elevated its ugly head above the others, barraging into Mel’s and interrupting the flow of normal life.

The jukebox was the subject of the debate, whether the young kids should be exposed to all the music and ruckus the world had to offer. It was a tremendous discussion, with cyclical arguments cluttering up the town’s square, and a garden of picket signs adorned the grassy parks.

You had grown tired of seating the religious, with their “damned” and “hell”s tossed around as if spitfire and brimstone could seethe from their lips as a means of damnation themselves. Harry’s booth was the shield of the Juke, his hair (scruffier by the day) and downturned head keeping the others from drawing near. He became a Juke Man and Guardian, and once more the pawn in a game he had never asked to join.

It was his condition and everyone knew it. No one knew how to handle ‘different’, so just like the jukebox, Harry’s name was tossed around as if he were also associated with the damned. It was never an act of talking to him, but about him. His unsettled nature brooded against a throne of molten lava and throttling skulls, eyes rolling back as his stayed steady on the nothingness lapping up against the shores of the town. He was to blame, because he dared to press a button.

“He’s blind, not deaf,” you snapped at one of the ladies, her eyes narrowed with assigned superiority and her lips parted with a huff. It was a Sunday, a Lord’s Day where the church women went around town, condemning all who would listen and informing the teen smokers out by the corner that the Devil smoked too.

“Well, he doesn’t _say_ anything,” she retorted. The other women hummed their agreement, pardoning any sins the others in their flock committed, as his lack of response meant that not only his miserable slouched self, but God Himself, did not mind.

“S’what I’ve been saying,” Loreanne sniffed, “The silents are what you’ve got to keep your eye on, for the Lord wants us rejoicing and the ones who stay quiet have something else on their mind. Can’t trust the Devil, can’t trust those who stay quiet when the Lord commanded us to rise.”

His voice was unexpected, parting through the crowd and ceasing the commotion with the restaurant. A low cough, a sniff, and his head rose.

“I’ve seen the Devil,” Harry snapped his gum and his jaw hardened. “He ain’t in a jukebox.”

The women’s heads turned, their floral hats and pinned hairdos quivering in the sincerity of his confirmation. It was an atrocity they ignored because it didn’t fit their narrative, the gunfires and cannons and blood and spilled guts upon the floor. It was easier to condemn what they had control over, than bodies stacked upon each other and the deafening roar of lost humanity.

Sure of the attention on him, not needing the confirmation of their beady eyes and swollen throats in the roaring heat, he leaned back and slowly pushed another dime into the machine.

\---

He stayed late that night. Perhaps he understood how the town swung, that the lampposts at night could do little to keep him safe. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t see the light, but rather that no one was paying attention, either. The entire town was blind now, and perhaps they had been for a while. You had remained on the outskirts of the restaurant, slowly tending to whoever needed service, but staying a distance away from his corner.

It had gotten more awkward as the night progressed, when you transitioned into doing your cleaning chores and whatnot, but Harry remained there, fingers pushing against the paper with more frustration until he had taken a break. His head rested against the back of the bench, his shoulders rising softly with his breath, as he listened.

It was a slow song. Love Me Tender droned from the juke, groaning beneath its machinery and drifting out into the empty restaurant as you set down the cloth rag. Mostly everything was clean, all of the surfaces had been wiped and the floor had been swept. Except for his booth, tucked away, nestled among the universe as a pocket of sanity within the brews of mania.

The night was removed. A silence befell the two of you, his fingers drawing back to the edges of his papers, stacking them up and setting them in a pile, resting along the substance of the words rather than absorbing the language within.

A question occurred to you, an instance that wasn’t entirely impossible but rather strange – only conceptually. It wasn’t necessarily a random thought, the idea having crossed your mind often when Harry stayed late and the world outside was too bitter for you to leave, the restaurant too warm for you to resist, and Harry too familiar for you to question it.

“Would you like to dance?”

Harry paused at that, his entire being falling to a still, perhaps not believing he had heard you correctly. Which was fair, as your voice cracked slightly on the end and your fingers were curled around the broomstick, feeling the reality and not believing how time had led you there.

Harry then flushed, red along his neck, as the silence lent itself towards the question having been real and needing a response. He had just put another dime in before you asked, and the song was beginning, a soft lead-in to the night.

“C’mon, I’ll lead,” you offered, moving closer and placing the broom to balance against the counter. You could sense it wasn’t rejection in his hesitation, and it was enough for you to press.

Harry gave a jerked nod, running his fingers through his clean-cut hair before clearing his throat. As he knew the restaurant as well as himself, it wasn’t a lack of familiarity that kept him standing awkwardly when he rose, but a lack of knowing how to approach you.

It was darkness and there was no clear lines of you necessarily, but your vision accumulated to the same level and it was an easy enough move to drift closer. It was only a blur, of you and him, and how you stepped closer and his chin dipped lower, a touch, knowing instinctively how you two fit.

His hands remembered the dance before he could wrap his presence around the motions. You drifted along the music towards something softer, an intangible clarity in the midst of a rose haze. It was warm, the center of his chest, how his body softened the more you two moved and you understood that once, he had danced for what seemed like forever.

“Hands are sweaty,” Harry mumbled, a cheeky grin almost forcing its way through, and you made a face.

“Not my fault I was working, is it?”

“Why are they so sweaty?”

“Why don’t you can it?” you grumbled, and for a piercing instant you felt an overwhelming wave of self-consciousness, ripping apart at the seams of whatever you had created, but it was that moment Harry barked out a laugh.

It seemed to surprise him as well, a shock of how overcoming his smile was, for a second later he sorted it back into something of serious contemplation.

Perhaps the situation should have been riddled with something uncomfortable, a strange sensation of dancing and physical proximity to someone the relationship had been purely casual. But Harry had freckles over his nose, and his eyebrows were beginning to soften, so you readjusted your fingers around his, feeling a hum between you both as you continued to sway.

It was a sight to see, for anyone passing through. The low-lit signs barely hanging on by a thread to the day’s activities, glistening around the pair of you. His hand was on your waist, fingers spread slightly, more for an assurance of where you were fully, and his other hand gently holding yours. A fragile transition, a trust within each other to lead without seeing, to lead without caring.

Harry was quiet for a moment, the silence that washed you both.

“’re you smiling?” his voice was curious, as if he felt something shift and was trying to place what had happened. His face had tightened again slightly, the uncertainty heightening his nerves.

“Yeah.” Hearing the smile became something tangible for him, and Harry’s face relaxed.

“Why yeh smiling?” he probed, a boyish crease to his lips that meant he knew just what you had felt.

“Just am. Happy, right now,” the words were thick with honesty, in the back of your throat where you tended to keep the more jumbled thoughts. It seemed he understood, a slow breathe from his chest pulling you in.

“Me too,” he murmured.

Your head came to rest on his chest, his arms closing in around you and holding you there, fingers dancing around edges of clothing and against warmed skin, but nothing farther.

Even when the song ended, it was still you two. Pressing against the odds, into the morning, the haze that cloaked you in something beyond your past.

It was when he left, with a hasted kiss to your forehead and a mumble about having a meeting, that the memories twisted into something fated.

\---

“Where’s Harry?” you asked, as Mel handed out the round of iced teas to the gangling group of greasers, their combs running through hair slicks and girls spitting out their gum daintily in crinkled napkins.

“Dunno. He not here?”

Sure enough, the booth was empty. Void of papers or books, satchels or men.

It remained empty for the rest of the day, Mel having reluctantly agreed with your request to hold out and see if Harry was simply late. The intervention in his need of scheduling had now impacted your own state, a frenzy of worry and regret fluttering in your chest when you removed yourself from the Waitress version of you, escaping into the vulnerable state of wondering too much and knowing too little.

For instance, if there had been a call for British soldiers damaged by the war, if there had been a promise of care and medical cures, it was nothing you knew for sure. Only pamphlets that were on their way, days down the line from where you sat, staring at an empty booth, knowing Harry couldn’t feel it this time.

And if there were a small flat in England, crammed with boys who had become men prematurely, bent over cigars and ales, scratching their heads and complaining of mundane things because they had the pleasure to have those mundane things now – the annoyances of neighbors and newspapers and late trains – it was only a suspicion that would grow in your mind.

And if there were a small radio tucked against one of the beds, music tinkering from the speakers, Presley’s voice crinkled and faded against the backdrop of these boys, huddled together playing poker and wishing life had dealt them different cards, it was nothing you knew for sure.

And if he was sat next to his friends Tommy and Billy – Billy with no legs and Tommy with the sort of nerves that would make a mouse feel pity -- dictating them what to scrawl down, in their small, blunt writing, what to say to you in letters that would never make it across the ocean, on parchment that met the bottom of the sea before it could reach your door, it was nothing you knew for sure.

The letters never came, and neither of you had the money to scrap for traveling. His booth remained empty. The Juke Guardian was gone, and perhaps it was only fitting for the Juke to be gone, as well. It ended up in the trash by the next week, angels cloaked in Southern hospitality and judgment watching from afar. Mel broke down by the threats of boycotts and letters to officials, it seemed. You had no words to save it yourself, feeling an immense loss and pity for the people you were surrounded by.

You would move on, you felt it in your bones and the way the diner still remained standing despite being weathered by so much. He was simply a boy, a mystery of a man you had grown to love for nothing but his kind smile and resilience in the godforsaken world. Yet, Harry was gone, it seemed, and the music had left with him.

It was the only reality that was known for sure.


End file.
